The Crafty Herbalist
by Annadel
Summary: Why would a woman in good health drop dead of a heart attack, and what does the newest resident of 221 Baker Street have to do with it?. Set post TRF, some spoilers.
1. The New Neighbor

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock, that's Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. I'm just borrowing the characters and Baker Street for a bit of an experiment in genre.

**Author's Note:** This is my first attempt at writing mystery. I'm more a science fiction and fantasy author looking for a challenge in an attempt to bust through writer's block on one of my originals. Please do let me know how I'm doing.

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><p>The foyer of 221B Baker Street was crammed with boxes when Sherlock and I returned after our latest case. We knew Mrs. Hudson had rented 221C the week before. There were workmen in repairing the mold and water damage the past few days. It'd driven Sherlock half barmy and me along with him. Only the memory of how miserable I'd been when he was "dead" kept me from spiking his tea. He can be a sorry git at times, but life's more interesting with him around…and conscious.<p>

A plump woman came in from the back just as I shut the door. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and her clothes were ill fitting and care worn. I glanced at Sherlock, silently asking him not to be a jerk.

"Hello," she greeted us with a smile and extended hand. "You two must be Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes."

"That's us," I answered as I shook her hand.

"Jennifer Northton," she offered as Sherlock took her hand. "Pleased to meet you both."

"Mrs. Hudson's been talking about us, I take it," Sherlock said.

Jennifer grinned. "Oh, she insisted we have a cuppa and a chat before I signed the lease," she answered. "It sounds like life's never boring around here."

"Not a bit," I agreed.

"Will you be bringing an animal with you?" Sherlock asked. His tone made it clear he didn't think much of the idea.

"_Here we go,"_ I thought and started preparing my apology.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Single woman in her early thirties, never married, and living on her own," Sherlock drawled. "It's a reasonable assumption."

Her eyebrows rose, but she didn't look like she was taking offense.

"Oh yes, your deductions," she replied. "No, I won't be adopting any animals." She tilted her head to the side as she considered Sherlock and crossed her arms over her chest. "I'm interested to see what else you've deduced about me, Mr. Holmes."

He smirked.

"You're originally from Wales, but you've moved around quite a bit. Considering the way you hold yourself, I'd say you were raised in a military family. You're a "professional" student, probably gained three or four stone the first few years on your own. You have recently begun dieting." His lips tightened and the corners pulled back in that forced smile of his. "Congratulations on your success so far."

I was prepared for embarrassment or anger in reaction. That's how most people respond to Sherlock's brand of honesty. Tears I could handle. I half expected to see her either slap him or quietly back away and never speak to us again. I never expected to see the day someone bemused by one of his deductions. Yet, as I watched her during his spiel, one eyebrow arched before the corners of her mouth quirked up in amusement.

"Ah well, maybe next time, Mr. Holmes," she said. "If you'll excuse me, I need to finish taking these boxes down."

Oh, I wish I'd thought to take a picture of Sherlock's face just then. You'd think he'd just been slapped with a fish. He found his voice just as Jennifer hefted one of the boxes, heavy with college texts.

"What did I miss?" he demanded.

"Everything," she answered. "Y'all have a good 'un." She gave us another grin before heading back toward 221C.

The slapped with a fish look was back, but Sherlock slipped into his emotionless mask again in seconds. A muscle in his jaw twitched, a sure sign he was building up to a massive sulk, and that's the last thing I need.

I pushed past him and started up the stairs.

"Come on, I'm starving," I said. "I think we have everything we need for a decent fry up. Not all of us can live on cases and air."

He was rehashing the clues he'd seen and his conclusions as he followed. I ignored him. It'd been three days since I'd had a full meal and a proper kip. Sherlock went straight for his violin when we entered the flat. I shrugged and went into the kitchen, dropping the morning paper on the counter as I went. Maybe figuring out or new neighbor would keep him occupied for a day or two if there was a lull between cases.

I put the kettle on and started bacon frying since I knew he wouldn't. After the coffee incident, I didn't mind so much. Although I'd forgiven Sherlock, I wasn't about to ingest anything he prepared again.

I leaned against the counter and skimmed the headlines while I waited for the bacon to need turning. Haverton's Apothecary was finally closing down. I smirked, thinking it was about time that quack was shut down. With the local naturalist gone, maybe business at the clinic would pick up a bit.


	2. Lastrade Calls

As it turned out, Sherlock didn't have time to study our new neighbor. The blog brought in three cases interesting enough for him to accept. They weren't as challenging as any Lestrade calls with, but they pay the bills and keep him from getting too bored.

Actually, we haven't seen Miss Northton since. We've heard her. The evenings we've been in and had a bit of quiet, we heard faint scales and exercises being played. I couldn't tell what instrument it was. Sherlock says it's a clarinet.

The man has the ears of a bat, I swear.

"Jennifer said she wouldn't complain about you playing at all hours if you didn't fuss about her playing," Mrs. Hudson said when Sherlock mentioned it to her.

"I wouldn't if she played anything interesting or with any sort of skill," he growled.

"She's only out of practice, dear," chided Mrs. Hudson. "And she keeps her playing to decent hours."

He'd snapped at Mrs. Hudson after that as I fought not to laugh. Then he slapped on a second nicotine patch and flopped back down onto the couch. That'd been two days ago, a few hours before Sherlock made the final connection on our latest case. He said her noise was putting him off his train of thought, and my hopes of having a fair relationship with our neighbor began to wither.

There were no new messages for us this morning. I groaned. Sherlock was already brooding, tunelessly plucking at his violin, breakfast barely touched. I was scheduled at the practice today. I needed to leave in ten, actually. The kitchen will be burnt out and Mrs. Hudson will be in hysterics when I get back this evening, I just know it.

I sighed and closed my laptop down before taking my dishes to the sink. Sherlock's phone rang.

"Lestrade," he drawled into the phone.

I did a mental jig, managing to restrain my physical reaction to a grin. Lestrade was calling with a new case. That'd keep my flatmate occupied while I was at work. It's odd how often I think such things like he's a child in need of constant minding rather than a grown man and a genius at that.

"New case?" I asked as he pulled on his coat and scarf.

"A woman collapsed on the street for no apparent reason about half an hour ago," he answered. "She died in route to the hospital."

"Things like that happen every day," I said, pulling on my own coat as I followed him down the stairs.

"Yes, but people in good health don't drop dead of heart attacks without cause."

Miss Northton entered from the street, opening a smallish box, as we walked into the foyer.

"Good morning," she said with a smile.

"Just getting in, are you?" Sherlock asked the same time I returned her greeting.

"What makes you say that?" she asked.

"You reek of men's cologne."

Near three years into knowing this man, and he still astounds me with his lack of tact. I winced in sympathy with her and waited for the slap or tears.

She laughed.

"And if I'd scheduled things a bit differently, you'd be looking askance at Dr. Watson just now," she said.

What on earth is she going on about?

She took a couple cards from the box she was holding and handed them to Sherlock and me, still chuckling, and wished us a good day. I watched her walk into the back, still confused.

"Mrs. Hudson," she called as she went. "I'm expecting another delivery later this morning. If I don't hear it, please just let me know. The boxes will be heavy."

I shook my head and looked back to Sherlock. He shoved the card in his pocket and stepped out the door. I followed finally looking at the card I'd been given. It was her business card. Miss Northton was the owner and artisan of Contentment Body Works.

I laughed, and Sherlock looked back at me, raising an eyebrow in question as the cab he'd hailed pulled up.

"She's the artisan who makes my brand of aftershave," I answered. I chuckled again when he scowled before getting into the cab.


	3. Mrs McDoogle

Sherlock texted me to meet him at Bart's after work. I found Molly performing the final stages of an autopsy on a portly man in his late forties when I arrived.

"Evening, Molly."

"Hello, John," she answered sparing me a smile before returning her attention to her work.

"Anything interesting?"

"Nothing unexpected with Mr. Rife here," answered Molly. "One heart attack too many," she sighed as she folded the y-incision closed. She peeled her gloves off and tossed them into the biohazard bin before scrubbing her hands. "The woman whose death Sherlock's investigating is next on my list. I just need to stitch Mr. Rife up, check his labs, and finish his paperwork."

"Sherlock upstairs then?" I asked. "I was summoned."

Molly chuckled. "I never would have guessed." She grinned wryly as she pulled on a clean pair of gloves and retrieved the suture kit. "He's testing the victim's belongings."

"Thanks, Molly."

"Ta."

I left her to it and made my way upstairs to the lab Sherlock commandeered whenever we came to Bart's. I've had a few chances to speak to Molly without Sherlock around these past couple years, most notably when he was off hunting down Moriarty's men while we all thought him dead, and it still amazes me how different she is when he's not in the room. I always thought love made a person blossom, though obviously not when it's all one sided. Especially when one of those sides is someone like Sherlock Holmes: investigative genius and emotional dunce.

He was paging through a planner when I got to the lab. A woman's bag lay on one of the tables with the contents spread out around it.

"How's Molly coming?" Sherlock asked without looking up.

"She's sewing him up now."

"Good." He dropped the planner onto the counter and walked over to one of the larger machines. That's what was different. It was one I hadn't seen used often, a spectrometer I think. Sherlock punched a few buttons, and the hum changed pitch.

"Annie McDoogle, 28, collapsed while out shopping this morning. Witnesses say she was having an epileptic fit though she had no history of seizures," he explained. "She went into cardiac arrest in route to the hospital, attempts at resuscitation failed, and she was declared dead on arrival. She had no personal or family history of neurological issues or heart disease, so what happened?"

"New medications?" I asked.

"No."

"Food allergy."

"No signs of anaphylaxis," Sherlock huffed. "Think, John! Even Anderson would have caught that."

"Some type of toxin then," I answered. Honestly, why does he ask if he's already got the answer? I really am filling in for a bloody skull, aren't I?

"Exactly!" Sherlock exclaimed. "But which one?"

The spectrometer printed out its results and quieted. Sherlock grabbed the sheet, eyes flicking back and forth as he read the results. His brow furrowed.

"Not what you expected?" I asked.

Sherlock hummed. "No," he answered with a glance my way before turning to gather the bag and other evidence he'd brought into the lab. "There may be something, but I'm going to need to do some research."

"What, no experts you can consult? It's been a while since I've had an ASBO."

"He retired and left for Italy last week," Sherlock answered as he pulled on his coat and scarf. His attention shifted to Molly, who was coming in to handle the paperwork on Rife judging by the files she was carrying. "Text me with the results of McDoogle's autopsy as soon as you have them," he ordered. "Pay special attention to her blood work and stomach contents."

I shot Molly a sympathetic smile and waved as I jogged to catch back up with Sherlock, who was already halfway down the hall. I heard her quiet, "Okay," before the door swung shut.


	4. The Northton Connection

Sherlock was silent the whole ride back to Baker Street. He was focused on nothing in particular, and his eyes flitted back and forth like he was speed reading something only he could see. I'd seen the expression a million times these past few years. He was searching for something in his mind palace as he calls it, and I learned a long time back he'd either ignore anything I said or snap at me if I said anything to him while he wore it. So I bode my time.

He went straight for the desk, setting the bag beside it and unfolding the test results. Then he opened a laptop, mine of course, and switched it on.

"Are you going to tell me what you found?" I asked.

He waved at the test result sheet. I took it up, skimmed the list of chemicals and the likely compounds from which they were derived: black tea, cream, sugar, and borage. Nothing jumped out at me, so I took a closer look at the chemical compounds.

"Amabiline is liver toxic, but the symptoms don't fit," I said. "And it'd take a much higher dose than this to kill her unless she was already suffering liver damage."

There was a knock at the door. Sherlock called for them to enter without looking up from the information he'd pulled up. I turned to see Miss Northton open the door.

"Hello," I said ignoring Sherlock's muttered, "Oh good lord."

"Good evening, Dr. Watson," she answered before turning to Sherlock. Her shoulders were tense, her face flushed, and jaw tight. It was the first time I'd seen an unfriendly expression from her. What's he done now?

"Please do call your brother, Mr. Holmes," she said. "I don't appreciate having my time wasted because you can't be bothered to pick up the phone."

"Oh, dull," he grumbled. "I haven't the time to soothe Mycroft's concerns."

"He sent a car for you too, huh?" I asked.

"Does he make a habit of it?"

"I'm surprised he hasn't waylaid Mrs. Hudson," I agreed.

"It'd give the poor dear a heart attack," she answered. "And I'm guessing she's met him before in any case."

I nodded.

"Oh, do shut up!" Sherlock snapped.

"He always this pleasant?" Miss Northton asked.

"Only when he's on a case," I answered. "You should see him when he's bored."

"Missing something?"

"Borage!" Sherlock interjected. "It's not something you'd find in tea. A salad, perhaps, but not tea. Why was it there?" He scrubbed his hands through his hair in frustration and pushed back from the desk.

"Inflammation," said Miss Northton.

Sherlock looked at her like he'd never seen her before. "How do you know that?"

"I'm a soaper," she answered. "Any worth their salt has at least a passing knowledge of the specialty oils and their uses. Plus, I read up on herb lore and what modern science has discovered about it for a bit of writing I did a few years back," she added with a shrug. "Borage seed oil is used to treat skin ailments caused by inflammation, and it can be used internally to treat arthritis. It can have some bad interactions though."

"Like what?" I asked.

"There's a few." She trailed off and raised a hand like she was going to run it through her hair, but it was pulled back into a tight ponytail as always. Her hand dropped. "I'd have to check my field guide of medicinal herbs. The only warning I can remember is in high concentrations it can trigger a heart attack under the right conditions."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her, and she rolled her eyes.

"It was relevant to what I was writing."

"So someone spiked her tea?" I asked.

"It would seem so, but why?" Sherlock agreed. "From what little evidence remained after Lestrade's men blundered in, we know Mrs. McDoogle was happily married. She had at least one small child, a cat, was a fairly successful seamstress, and paid particular attention to her health."

"McDoogle?" asked Miss Northton. "Not Annie McDoogle."

"You knew her?"

She turned to me, eyes wide and shoulders falling. "I knew of her," she answered. "I'd hoped to meet her this weekend at the Londoner's Craft Expo."

"You're attending?" Sherlock asked.

She nodded. "I'm a vender. It's why I've been hole up in my flat the past week, building inventory." She huffed and crossed her arms over her chest. "And wouldn't you know the first time I took more than two steps out of the building this week, your brother pulled his dramatics. Now I've nothing in, and the shops are all closed."

"Never mind Mycroft," Sherlock growled. He sat forward and steepled his fingers under his chin. "How did you hear of McDoogle?"

"I joined the Londoner's Etsy Team a month or so before I moved to London," she answered. "She was one of the more talkative team members. Very nice, always willing to offer advice to the newer sellers, and with numbers like hers, she was taken seriously."

"What's an Etsy team?"

"Etsy's an online market for crafters." Miss Northton motioned toward the laptop and raised one eyebrow in question. Sherlock turned it toward her, and she rummaged through her purse for a moment before pulling out a pair of half-rimmed specs and putting them on. She opened a new tab and typed in the address before turning the laptop back toward Sherlock. "It's a global marketplace where people can sell crafting supplies as well as handmade or vintage items." She typed in another address, and the storefront for Contentment Body Works came up.

"Every seller has their own storefront, and their items can be searched for through the main page." She clicked on a couple of links and brought up the information page for the Londoner's team. "The teams are groups, sometimes local, sometimes by like interests. They have their own forums where topics can be discussed, and every now and again, they organize conventions or craft shows like the Expo on Saturday."

"And Mrs. McDoogle was a successful seller?" Sherlock asked.

"Very," Miss Northton agreed. She turned the laptop back toward herself and began clicking through links. "She specialized in custom cosplay designs, though she did do a few originals. Gorgeous work. She averaged a sale a week, which is huge for large scale work like this."

McDoogle's storefront was on the screen now, and Northton was right. The costumes listed looked like they belonged on a movie lot, and there were 236 sales listed since the shop opened in 2007. Sherlock turned the laptop back around and became absorbed in the information there.

"You said you had a field guide of medicinal herbs somewhere?" I asked Miss Northton. She nodded. "Could we borrow it for a bit?"

"I'll get it for you," she answered. "I'm not using it at the moment."

"Actually, I'm famished, and you said you'd nothing in and no chance to get to the shops," I said, swiping Sherlock's wallet out of his coat as I guided her out the door. "There's a nice little deli down on the corner."

"Lead the way, Dr. Watson."

"John, please."

She smiled and nodded in response. "Jennifer, then."

"So did Mycroft pull the archenemy bit with you too?"

"Yes," she answered, "and he offered a bribe to spy on Sherlock."

"What'd you say?" I asked. We locked the door to 221B Baker Street behind us, and I lead Jennifer toward the deli.

"I told him there was this lovely thing known as communication, and he should try it if he wanted to know what his brother was up to."

"H-how'd you know Mycroft was Sherlock's brother?"

Jennifer shrugged. "He didn't hold any malice toward him. He was concerned, but he obviously didn't feel like he could just call him. That screams immediate family, and he's nowhere near old enough to be Sherlock's father. That left older brother." She smirked. "It was a guess really, but he was nice enough to confirm it."

"Brilliant!" I laughed. "Bloody brilliant. You got one over on one of the Holmes brothers! I'd have loved to have seen that." We'd arrived at the deli. I opened the door and followed Jennifer in.

"Eh, educated guess," she waved it off.

"Grab us a table," I said once we'd placed our orders. Her brow furrowed, and she started to protest. I held up Sherlock's wallet. "This one's on Sherlock," I said. "Consider it thanks for your help and a sorry his brother's a prat."

Jennifer snorted in amusement and went to find a booth. The service was as quick as it normally was, so I was paying for our meals a couple minutes later. I found her stretching her neck from one side to the other and kneading the palm of her left hand as I made my way to the booth.

"Carpel tunnel?" I asked as I sat down.

"Occupational hazard," Jennifer answered with a nod. She accepted her meal with quiet thanks. "I'm beginning to wonder if moving here was such a good idea," she sighed. "London's the polar opposite of what I'm used to."

"I didn't think Wales would be so different," I said. "Bit more rural maybe, but climate's similar."

Jennifer chuckled and shook her head. "I meant it when I said Sherlock's deduction was wrong."

She was serious though her eyes shone with mirth. I watched her tuck into her supper, utterly unable to think of something to say. I thought she'd said it to annoy him. My confusion must have shown because she half smiled before explaining.

"I can see where he'd think I was a Welsh army brat. The area I'm from was settled by Welsh and Scotts colonists, with my own family going over… Oh about 150 years back. But honestly, I'm not even British. I'm here on a work visa." She smirked and started eating again.

"But your accent…"

"Yeah that." She blushed. "I've a decent ear and a head for patterns. It makes me something of a mimic, so I start copying accents I hear without really meaning to." Jennifer paused to sip at her tea, and when she started speaking again, her accent had changed. "It's getting where I have to think about it to drop back into my native accent."

"You're an American!"

Jennifer nodded. "Lived all my life in rural North Alabama."

"You still don't sound it," I answered. I'd heard Southern accents on telly and at the cinema. Her's was American, but she didn't sound anything like I'd heard people from the southeast U.S. sounded.

"I have a drawl, but not the twang used in the movies," she said. "I grew up near an R and D town. The accent started to change when Van Braun's group came in, and it accelerated with all the other engineers and scientists coming into the area the last few decades. Certain words though…"

"London really is different for you then."

"Much more crowded," she agreed, "much less green, and absolutely freezing!"

"It's not _that_ cold," I laughed.

"So you're just super fond of the layered look?" Up that eyebrow went again.

"I served in Afghanistan," I answered. "I got used to the heat."

"And my whole life, I've been used to weather like this only in January and February," said Jennifer. "It's late April. Maybe it'll feel like spring to me come midsummer."

We talked about the usual subjects through the rest of dinner: school, work, and family. Turns out she'd found my blog after Mrs. Hudson told her about Sherlock and me. I still don't quite know how to react when someone talks about it. My face was burning, and I imagine I looked like a giant tomato.

"John? Do you have Mycroft's contact information?" Jennifer asked as we walked back from the deli.

"Having second thoughts about spying on Sherlock?" I asked.

"Lord no." She laughed before turning serious again. "I'm not going to spy on Sherlock. But that doesn't mean I'm not going to call his brother if he takes a self-destructive turn when you aren't there."

"W-what makes you…" I started, shock and confusion tying my tongue in knots.

"I might not be a doctor, John," she said, voice quiet. "But I've seen manic depression before."

My first reaction was to tell her Sherlock couldn't possibly be manic depressive. He just hated being bored and got excited when he found something interesting.

"Depression and boredom are easy to confuse for someone like Sherlock," Jennifer answered.

I didn't know what to say to that. I thought back over the times I found him claiming to be bored and tried to think of him as any other patient. If I didn't know him like I do, I would think he was depressed. He became lethargic, anxious, moody, and eventually self-destructive. I still didn't think he was bipolar, but Jennifer had a point.

I gave her Mycroft's contact information as we made it back home. I followed her back to 221C to pick up the field guide we'd set out to get in the first place. The flat looked much different than it did the last time I'd seen it back during Moriarty's sick idea of a game. The faint smell of mold had gone with the renovators, and it'd been repainted in warm earth tones. The furnishings were simple, but it was neat and homey looking. It was thick with the smell of one of her fragrances, and I saw stacks of soaps awaiting wrapping in her kitchen.

Jennifer went to the tiny office area in the corner of her living area to retrieve the guide from its shelf. The bookcases were stacked with a host of college texts on literature, biology, history, and a smattering of other subjects and a whole shelf of reference books. She found the little green guide on the reference shelf and brought it to me.

"Here you go, one field guide of medicinal herbs," she said. "Just return it when you're done, please."

"Will do," I agreed as I accepted the book.

"Would." I reflexively swallowed. Jennifer isn't a looker, truth be told, but she's not exactly hideous either. She's bright and funny, and she can hold her own with Sherlock. The man's my best friend. Any woman I try to date is going to have to be able to handle him being around. I'd learned that the hard way. "Would you like to maybe go out again sometime?"

Jennifer's eyes went really wide, and she got this flummoxed look on her face before she blushed. Then I remembered, she'd said Sherlock was wrong about all his deductions about her, and he'd said she was single. I'd really stepped in it. I started to stammer an apology the same time she went to answer me.

"Don't apologize," she answered. "I'm flattered, truly. It's just…" She trailed off, swallowing hard. Her right hand went to her left ring finger like she was expecting to find a ring there. She didn't seem aware of it, but I saw it. "It's too soon," she whispered. She looked down, unable to meet my eyes.

"I'm sorry," I answered. "I didn't realize."

"Not your fault." She gave me a watery smile. "Good night, John."

"Good night, Jennifer."


	5. The Tea's the Thing

"I said pass me a pen," Sherlock said when I entered the flat. He was still sitting at the desk, hunched over the laptop. I shook my head, grabbed one of the pens on the table by my chair, and tossed it to him. He caught it as always, never looking up. I slipped his wallet back into his coat and went to put the kettle on.

"I borrowed Jennifer's field guide," I said as I plopped down into my chair and looked up borage in the index.

"It took half an hour to borrow a book from downstairs?" Sherlock asked. His gaze flicked up from the monitor. He frowned. "Really, John? You can't be serious."

"What?"

"You took her to dinner."

"It wasn't like that, Sherlock," I answered. "Not that it's any of your business." I found the entry. There was an image and a single page of information. It wasn't exactly much to go on, but it was a start.

"Anything relevant?"

"She was right about borage being used to treat inflammation and able to trigger heart attacks," I said. "It can also exacerbate epilepsy or induce seizures in some people. Liver damage is also listed as a possible side effect of use."

The kettle began to whistle. I handed Sherlock the guide and went to take it off the burner.

"It'd take a massive dose or a highly concentrated one," I added.

"Yes, it would."

A text came in on Sherlock's phone. He snatched it off the desk and read the text. I was lifting the kettle to pour when he stood and strode for the door.

"I need to speak with Mr. McDoogle," he said as he pulled on his coat. "Coming, John?"

I sighed and set the kettle back on the counter. "Yeah, why not?" I grabbed my coat and pulled it on as we headed down stairs.

"What'd Molly say?" I asked as he hailed a cab.

Sherlock gave the cabbie the address. Another text came in. He read it as he answered my question.

"Mrs. McDoogle was indeed in perfect health aside from the damage caused by this morning's heart attack. It was caused by a steep drop in blood pressure."

"Okay," I drawled. "How does that lead to us interviewing Mr. McDoogle?"

"Because the reason borage can trigger heart attacks is because it causes a drop in blood pressure," he answered and then showed me his latest text. "And because Mrs. McDoogle's bloodstream was swimming with the borage compounds. We need to find that tea and where she got it."

He received another text alert. One corner of his mouth tipped up in a half smile, and he said, "Interesting," before responding.

"We may have another victim," he said.

"Who?" I asked.

"Richard Rife," Sherlock answered. "His labs came back similar to Annie McDoogle's though nothing unusual showed up in his autopsy. I asked Molly to have the blood work run again and to test the stomach contents."

"So we have someone going around London poisoning people with a salad vegetable."

"Don't be obtuse, John." He grimaced at me. "The leaves and flowers are salad vegetables. The compounds we found are specific to the seeds and concentrated far above medicinal use."

I rolled my eyes.

Andrew McDoogle looked like hell when we arrived. His eyes were red rimmed and puffy, and he held a squalling infant when he answered the door. He ushered us inside, and handed the little boy off to an older woman.

"Did your wife purchase any new teas recently?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know," he answered. "She'd do the shopping while I was at work. It was always packed away by the time I got home." Mr. McDoogle looked off into the middle distance, and his brows knit together. "I think she was given a new blend as a gift the other day."

He stood from his chair and walked into the kitchen. A moment later he came back into the sitting room carrying an ornate tin.

"It was still out on the counter where she made her tea this morning," he said. He handed the tin to Sherlock.

"Do you know who gave it to her?" I asked.

"Annie just said it was someone from that group of hers," McDoogle answered. He scrubbed at the back of his neck. "The one that was putting on that Expo this weekend she was so excited about. She wanted to discuss some type of partnership."

"Did she agree to the partnership?" Sherlock asked. He'd opened the tin and was sniffing the loose leaves.

"No," answered McDoogle. "Annie worked too hard the past five years building her business to risk it."

"And they still gave her the tea?" Sherlock asked.

"Hostess gift," McDoogle said with a shrug. "Annie invited her over here instead of going out. She was sewing every free minute the last few weeks getting ready for that Expo of hers. Didn't want to waste time going out."

"We'll need to take this for testing," Sherlock said and closed the tin.

"Take whatever you need," McDoogle agreed. High pitched wailing sounded from upstairs, and McDoogle rubbed at his eyes. His voice cracked when he spoke again. "I need to see to him."

"We'll just show ourselves out," I offered.


	6. The Importance of Teamwork

It was after 10:30 by the time we left the McDoogle's. Molly would have left Bart's once she'd ordered the lab work, and she's the only pathologist Sherlock can get to let him into the morgue and labs. This was a frequent source of frustration for him. I for one was glad of the fact. His cases meant long nights searching for clues or risking our lives often enough it's a wonder I'm still employed. I'll take a stroke of luck where I can get it.

There was no way Lestrade would let us into Rife's flat unless we could prove his death was suspicious, and even then, he wasn't likely to do so until we could connect Rife's death to McDoogle's. We couldn't do that until the lab work was finished, so Sherlock had little choice but to direct the cabbie back to Baker Street. He'd still hunt through what information he could find online until he dozed off at his desk, but there wasn't much else he could do until morning.

Molly started turning her phone off when she went to bed well before I'd met Sherlock. Apparently he'd manipulated her into going in past midnight a couple times the first year she'd known him, and she'd gotten sick of it. Smart girl.

Sherlock went straight back to the laptop when we got back home. I considered making a cup of tea, but given the past few hours, I decided I'd just shower and head for bed. He was growling at the computer when I'd finished showering.

"Something the matter?" I asked.

"I need the names of those involved in the Londoner's Etsy Team," he answered. "But that information is only available to team members." He rubbed his eyes and scrubbed at his hair. "I registered with the site and attempted to join, but apparently all new members must be approved."

My eyes narrowed. I've been around him long enough to guess what he was about to try. "Don't even think of hacking Jennifer's account."

He shot me his you're-an-idiot glare. "I don't hack. I deduce passwords."

"Well don't," I said. "She doesn't need you mucking about with her livelihood, and it's rude." Sherlock rolled his eyes, and I sighed. "You know, she'd probably get the information for you if you just asked."

His face brightened as he jumped up from his chair. He was going to go demand her help now, wasn't he?

"I wouldn't try it now," I said.

"Why not?"

"It's nearly midnight, Sherlock! Normal people are in bed about now, and waking them up isn't a good way of getting them to do you a favor." For someone who claims to be a high functioning sociopath, he sure looks hurt right now. "Look, just go get some sleep," I said. "We'll stop by and ask her before we leave for Bart's in the morning."

And that's why I'm knocking on Jennifer's door at 6:30 in the morning with Sherlock looming over my shoulder. We could hear a mechanical whirring coming from inside the flat, so we knew she was awake at least. She didn't respond at first, but I doubt she could hear over whatever was making all the noise. It stopped, and I knocked again.

"Come in," she called.

"Good morning," I said as I pushed the door open.

Jennifer was in the kitchen removing the pitcher from a blender. She looked our way and smiled.

"Morning, John. Mr. Holmes," she said. "Just a moment. I need to get these poured quickly."

I'd thought she was making a breakfast smoothie or some such, but she began pouring the liquid into tubes. Then I noticed the gloves she wore and a familiar smell as I made my way toward the kitchen.

"Is that 'Smithy' aftershave?" I asked. Jennifer nodded as she continued to fill the tubes. "It's much thinner than it should be, isn't it?"

"It's still warm," she answered. "It'll thicken over the next couple of hours before I label and seal them."

Jennifer finished capping the aftershaves and put the pitcher into the sink, filling it with soap and water. She turned back to her workspace and placed her hand on the bottom of a huge measuring cup full of a bright red liquid and covered in plastic. She shook her head and started peeling off her gloves.

"Coffee?" she asked with a wave toward a full pot on the counter.

"Black, two sugars, please," Sherlock said as he stepped into the kitchen. Jennifer turned her attention to me and raised an eyebrow in question.

"Just cream please, thank you."

She nodded and turned to start preparing the coffees. "What brings the two of you by this morning?" she asked.

"Mrs. McDoogle was killed by a member of the Londoner's Etsy Team," Sherlock said with his usual tact. "I need a list of members."

She turned, carrying two mugs. "And you want me to compile one for you." She handed us the mugs and turned to prepare one of her own. "The expo starts first thing in the morning. Set up is tonight, and I still have a couple dozen pounds of soap to finish, let alone package! I simply don't have the extra time today, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock, please," he said and took a sip from his mug.

I took a sip from my own as I glared at him. He was about to try laying on the charm to manipulate her into doing it anyway. His expression changed from his usual emotionless mask to friendly morning person the instant Jennifer turned around with her own coffee. Here it comes.

"Your nieces are beautiful," he said.

Jennifer looked confused for a moment before her expression cleared. She sipped her coffee before she responded.

"Quite right except for one thing," she said.

"What's that?"

"Unless you went digging through my bookshelves for an album, the girls you saw pictured weren't my nieces." She looked away. "They were my daughters."

I'd just taken another drink from my mug. It was rather nice…for coffee. And I wound up chocking on it and sputtering.

"D-daughters?" I asked.

Jennifer nodded. She set her cup down on the table and walked into the living room to retrieve a framed photo off the side table. She brought it back into the kitchen and handed to me.

"That's my husband Lee with our two girls, Nichole and Brooke, last summer," she said. She smiled sadly as she looked at the photo. It faltered and her chin quivered.

"They died," Sherlock surmised.

"He was taking them to visit his folks," Jennifer answered with a nod. Her voice cracked. "Some kid was texting and driving. Ran the light."

"I'm so sorry," I said. It sounded trite, but what do you say to something like that?

"Yeah," she said and scrubbed at her eyes.

"You don't wear your ring while you're working because it would get in your way," said Sherlock. I glared at him. Then I noticed his expression. It was the same one he'd worn at our Christmas party when he'd hurt Molly. Was this some weird lead in to an apology, or was he trying to change the subject?

"There's that," she agreed after taking a few deep breaths and blinking rapidly a few times. Her voice wasn't wavering anymore. "But I only ever wore jewelry when I was going away from the house. Never liked it." She sat and wrapped her hands around her mug. "It gets on my nerves."

"I am sorry to have upset you," Sherlock said quietly.

I took a long drink of my coffee to hide my smile. He was learning. I'm so proud.

Jennifer sighed. "Don't worry about it." She finally looked back up at us. Her expression was still sad, but she looked understanding at the same time. "I couldn't avoid it forever."

She gave us a watery smile, and we sat around her table in awkward silence, sipping coffee for a couple minutes. I had no clue what to say. I kept having this ridiculous urge to bring up the weather or some sports team I couldn't give two shakes about.

"Look," said Jennifer. She stood and returned her cup to the counter before touching that gigantic measuring cup again. "It's not that I don't want to help. I'm just kind of pressed for time today." She pulled on a fresh pair of gloves and peeled the plastic wrap back. "I'll make a deal with you though."

"What kind of deal?" Sherlock asked. He watched as she tested the red liquid with a candy thermometer.

"I'll take the time out to make up that list for you: names, business name, and niche I'm guessing?" She looked back over her shoulder at us as she set the thermometer aside. Sherlock answered in the affirmative. "But I'll need you two to help me make up the time this evening."

"What would you need?" I asked.

"I'll have several cases of soap, lotions, aftershaves, and bath soaks along with display props and marketing materials to get loaded into a cab, unloaded at the venue, and unpacked." She took another measuring cup, filled with unevenly cut white cubes and covered in plastic film, and placed it in the microwave. "It'd take nearly three hours by myself including travel time."

"You don't have your own vehicle?" Sherlock asked. He didn't want to "waste his time" with this trade and was looking for a way to refuse.

"I've only been over here for three weeks, Sherlock," she answered. Jennifer pulled the measuring cup out of the microwave and stirred the contents before putting it back in. "I'm not exactly comfortable driving on what feels like the wrong side of the road. I'll find some other way of doing things before the next craft show, but I was kind of time crunched for this one with having to rebuild my inventory from nothing."

Sherlock's jaw twitched, and he glanced to the clock on her stove. It was 7:00. Molly would arrive at St. Bart's in half an hour.

Jennifer removed the cup from the microwave again and stirred it. Apparently satisfied, she brought it over to the counter and picked up the larger one. She began pouring the red liquid into the molds set out on her workspace.

"What time?" Sherlock asked.

I looked at him. Did he really just agree to trading one favor for another?

"Seven," she answered. "I'll have your list ready for you then."


	7. Rife

**Author's Note:** I know Sherlock might have seemed just a tad OOC toward the end of the last chapter. Keep in mind though, he's been known to act a bit, and he always has a reason for everything he does. Also, it's been quite a bit longer between chapters this round. Sorry about that. Spring break ended, so I'm back to homeschooling the young ones. Plus, I ended up getting a new PR client over last weekend and have been a bit busy with them. Chapters will keep coming regularly, but not exactly on an almost daily basis like last week.

* * *

><p>"What is it you find so amusing?" Sherlock asked with a roll of his eyes once we were in the cab and on our way to St. Bart's.<p>

"I just never thought I'd see the day someone would successfully bargain with you." I'd been trying not to grin like a fool since he'd agreed, and I finally just gave it up.

"Why wouldn't I agree?" he asked. I knew my confusion was showing as he smirked. "The killer is a member of this Londoner's team. Odds are good they will be participating in the expo, and helping Mrs. Northton grants us access tonight."

"So you only agreed to her terms…"

"As a way to ensure access to further information as quickly as possible should Richard Rife prove a dead end, yes."

I shook my head and looked out the window at the shops passing by. "I don't know why I'm surprised," I mumbled.

We passed the rest of the drive in relative silence. Sherlock was once again typing away at his phone, looking up something or other. He hadn't slept much if at all last night so far as I could tell. He'd been awake when I'd gone upstairs to my room, and he was up, showered, and dressed when I came back down this morning. What more could he be hoping to find if he'd sat up researching the group and Richard Rife half the night?

Molly was rounding the corner, heading toward her lab from the employee locker room, when Sherlock pushed the double doors open. Her arms were full of files and her usual clipboard, so chances were good she'd already picked up the lab results.

"Oh." She greeted us with her usual grin. "Good morning."

"Morning, Molly," I returned the same time Sherlock demanded the test results.

She shifted through the file folders in her arms. "There wasn't much left in Rife's stomach, so it'd been a few hours since he'd eaten when he died," she explained as she handed two files to Sherlock. "There were traces of borage left there and just tons of it in his blood."

Sherlock looked up from the files to raise an eyebrow at her. Molly's smile faltered a bit and she blushed.

"The dosage could have killed a small horse," she explained. "Literally."

"How could someone ingest that much borage seed oil?" I asked. "The stuff available is so diluted; you'd need a gallon or more." I turned a little green just thinking about that much oil.

"They would concentrate it," Sherlock answered. "I need a copy of both…" He trailed off as Molly handed him an envelope with her usual shy smile.

I haven't often seen Sherlock surprised, and I don't think I've ever seen him be _pleasantly_ surprised. Though I think the quiet huff followed by the half grin he rewarded her with as he returned the original files and accepted the envelope counted.

"Thank you, Dr. Hooper," he said and nodded to her. He turned, coat swirling, and started back toward the doors.

Molly's eyes light up whenever he does that, and this morning was no different. Sherlock knows exactly what she thinks of the thing. I can tell, and he does it just to get a reaction out of her. Sometimes I can't decide if he's a massive showoff, the world's most clueless flirt, or both. I thanked her and gave her a wave and hurried to catch Sherlock up.

"Don't you need to examine the body?" I asked.

"No point," he answered. "Any information of value will have been destroyed during the autopsy."

Sherlock pulled his phone out of his coat pocket and dialed.

"Annie McDoogle was murdered. Poison meant to make it look like a heart attack, and she wasn't the only victim." He paused, self-pleased smirk playing on his face as he listened to Lestrade. "Richard Rife, forty-five, overweight, and already suffered two heart attacks. It would have been overlooked if Molly hadn't performed both autopsies yesterday afternoon and recognized the similarities." Another pause. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course I have the reports. Meet us at Rife's flat."

Sherlock handed the autopsy reports to me. I waited until we'd hailed a cab and gotten inside to start flipping through to give my usual second opinion. It wasn't often I managed to catch some detail Sherlock or Molly overlooked, but I did from time to time. Today wouldn't be one of those times.

Rife's flat was just a couple blocks from Scotland Yard, and we ended up arriving at the same time as Lestrade. I handed him the autopsy reports as Sherlock led the way upstairs. By the time Lestrade and I caught up, Sherlock had already opened the door with the key that'd been included in the file along with Richard Rife's other personal effects. And wouldn't you know it, the flat wasn't empty.

"Who are you?" demanded a surprised looking man in a business suit. He looked to be boxing up Rife's belongings. "What are you doing here?"

"Scotland Yard," Lestrade answered and produced his badge. "It was discovered this morning Richard Rife's death was a homicide. This is now a crime scene. Who are you?"

"Rife's lawyers, obviously," Sherlock said. The lawyer stood there eyes wide and mouth opening and closing like he was trying to say something but couldn't form a coherent sentence. Another suited fellow picked that moment to come around the corner. "They're here to prepare his estate for auction."

"I'm afraid you'll have to leave it for now, boys," said Lestrade.

"We'll need to see the proper documentation," said the second lawyer.

"Of course," answered Lestrade. "If you'll leave the boxes and come with me."

They both regarded Sherlock and me with suspicion, but they put down the boxes they were carrying and followed Lestrade out into the hall. Sherlock immediately went to work deducing.

"You going to fill me in on what you found about Rife last night?" I asked. I started looking through the box of files the first lawyer had been filling.

"He was a broker. Like you, he had a fondness for inflicting his opinion on the world in a blog and was preoccupied with dating." I could hear a sneer in his voice at the last. Apparently bored with the parlor, he walked into the kitchen and began looking through the cabinets and refrigerator.

I lifted a packet of paperwork. Underneath was the deed to a commercial property downtown. There were four more under it, and bills of sale for still more were under those. I pulled them from the box.

"Judging by the state of his pantry and fridge, the spare furnishings, and relative cleanliness of his flat, he had a housekeeper that came in once a week," said Sherlock as he reentered the parlor. "No signs of family." He held up a leather bound day planner. "And according to this, he had a dinner planned with 'Carrie' the night of his death."

"And it looks like he flipped commercial properties on the side," I added holding up the papers I'd found. "I found several deeds and bills of sale. I suspect there's paperwork for renovations made here somewhere."

He took the papers from me and looked through them. I turned back to the boxes of files and continued looking. I could hear Sherlock flipping through papers rapidly a moment later, and looked back to see him looking through the planner he'd found before returning his attention to the papers I'd handed him. His eyes got wide, and he smiled moments later.

"Seems 'Carrie' was interested in one of Rife's properties," he said. Sherlock pulled one of the deeds to the front of the stack.

He walked back out into the hall where the two lawyers were still arguing with Lestrade. They'd already begun advertising the estate auction and were understandably upset over the delay. Sherlock showed them the deed he'd singled out and asked what was to be done with it. All the properties were to be auctioned 'as is' along with all the other items in Rife's estate come Sunday afternoon.

"We are trying to investigate and find the guilty party as quickly as possible," he said. As often as I've seen him act over the last few years, it still surprises me every time. I've gotten better at hiding it though. At least I think I have; no one's noticed of late. "We really need to take a look around this particular property. You wouldn't mind helping speed things along, would you?"

He gave them that fake smile of his, but like anyone who doesn't actually know Sherlock, they fell for the act and agreed. The lawyers drove us out to the property in question. It was a small shop in a busy but boring group of shops. Absolutely every other shop on the street was some box chain or other.

The inside of the old shop was completely bare. There wasn't a clue even to what it used to be left. It'd been cleaned out in preparation for renovations, but none had been started yet.

After most of an hour of searching fruitlessly for clues, we left and headed back to Baker Street. Sherlock pinned the pertinent information to the wall as is his habit, slapped on a fresh nicotine patch, and simply stared. I looked in the ice box for something to quiet my grumbling stomach, and finding it lacking, decided I should tend to the weekly shopping before we were to meet Jennifer.


End file.
